Deceptions
by sueinnm
Summary: While Loki endures an eternity of imprisonment, Frigga struggles with a secret that, if revealed, may have consequences even she can't predict. Set during the events of Thor: The Dark World (veering into AU in later chapters) Rated T for mention of mature themes, non-explicit.
1. Chapter 1

_**Deceptions**_

Frigga vanished before Loki could touch her, the perfect image turning to smoke and mist, dissipating even as his fingers closed around empty air and silence.

He dropped his hand, fingers clenched, and backed away. As always, after these rare visits, he was left with a feeling he despised: utter, inconsolable loneliness. But this time it had been different in one significant way: they had spoken of Odin. All the words left unsaid before had emerged, and all the hurt and rage with them.

"He is not my father!" Loki had said, unable to conceal his hatred even from her.

"So I am not your mother?"

The question had cut him to the heart, and yet he had answered calmly, knowing—even as he spoke—that he would hurt her.

"No," he had said softly. "You are not."

And then he had reached for her, as if to prove his words false.

Now she was gone.

He stalked about the cell, muscles tense, considering what he might destroy that he wouldn't miss later. But Frigga had given him all this: the comfortable bed with its thick furs, the table, the chair, the books, the other small comforts that made this confinement somewhat more bearable. She provided wine that was better than the common swill his guards occasionally delivered, and food of far higher quality than the sparse and tasteless rations his sentence imposed upon him.

But most of all, she provided her company during these irregular, "personal" visits, when she defied the All-father to speak to him for a minute or two or three, asking after his health and needs, delivering small tidbits of court gossip he might find amusing. Never touching on the one subject that made of all the others meaningless.

Until today.

Holding the turmoil of his emotions firmly in check, he took his chair, stretched out his legs, and continued reading where he had left off. Frigga had done her best, but she seemed determined to improve his character with dull tomes of philosophy that read rather too much like the sermons of a mortal priest attempting to bend the will of his congregation to the desires of their ineffectual god.

_And they could have had me_, Loki thought, closing the book. He would have brought order to their world, ended their petty international quarrels and brought them the true contentment of servitude. Even the most intelligent and gifted among them was incapable of wielding power without tempting self-destruction. It was a miracle that Midgard had remained intact so long.

Loki massaged the skin between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. There were still things—events, segments of time, actions—from his time on Midgard he had trouble remembering, as if he had seen them through the eyes of another man … a man who had died and taken his memory into death with him. It wasn't as if he didn't know what he'd done. And he had long since admitted to himself that he had made many mistakes, most specifically in his methods and approach. His use of the Chitauri being foremost among them.

But he always reminded himself that he hadn't had much choice. Another had made that very clear … another he'd fortunately heard nothing of since his defeat. Still, sometimes he imagined something dark and twisted careening about inside his brain, making it difficult to plan or even think when he needed his mind most clear.

Shaking off the **(pointless thoughts, Loki picked up a somewhat more interesting book—a recently-authored piece on the history of Vanheimian magic, a mere two hundred years old—and set about absorbing the contents. Perhaps, when Frigga came again, he could show her a small trick or two, as much as he was permitted in this warded chamber.

He smiled slightly, anticipating the moment, and bent his attention to the book again.

#

How she hated these visits.

Frigga paced her chamber, distress flooding her body anew with every footstep, every beat of her heart. She could still hear Loki's words—words that might have been devastating had she not understood what lay behind them. The pain, the torment, the self-contempt, all the wounds she had never been able to heal. Could never hope to mitigate, not as long as Loki remained in that cell.

And that would be for the rest of his life.

"Oh, my son," she whispered. "What have you done to yourself?"

_What have I done to you_?

She paused beside the bed and looked down at her hand, turning it palm up. Loki had reached for her, his offered touch giving the lie to his rejection of their kinship. But then the maid had entered her chamber, and Frigga had broken the spell. Odin almost certainly knew of her clandestine visits, but he would not stop her as long as she remained discreet … and took pains to make sure neither he nor anyone else ever caught her at it.

Now the maid stood near the door, her face very long. She was not Frigga's regular personal maid, or she would have known what she'd interrupted. Even so, she recognized that her mistress was far from happy.

"Gerda," Frigga said, smiling as she approached the young woman. "Would you be so good as to bring me fruit and wine? I quite forgot to take my morning meal."

With a sudden, grateful smile, Gerda curtsied and hurried out to fulfill the queen's gentle command. Once she was gone, Frigga sat on her couch, arranging her gown and robes as if she were holding court among those who preferred to approach her rather than Odin with their requests and petitions. At such times, she was queen, benevolent but always distant. She could not forget her role.

Now, she was merely a woman. And a mother. That, above all. A mother who had been lying to her favorite son ever since he had learned of his jotun father, and of Odin's cruel deception.

Loki, too, was a master of deception. But _she_ was its mistress.

She remembered.

#


	2. Chapter 2

"I am here, Laufey of Jotunheim," she said. Even though a harsh, bitter wind lashed at her hair and fur robes, she didn't raise her voice. She knew perfectly well that he could hear her, and she refused to cater to him in any way.

Though he knew she could have done no other than come to him, she would never let him know how much it horrified her.

"Queen of Asgard. You haven't changed."

The voice was hardly more than a whisper close to her ear. She suppressed a flinch of disgust as Laufey's cold breath sighed across her cheek.

Turning to face him, she lifted her chin and smiled. "Neither have you, King of Jotunheim," she said.

She might as well have said "king of nothing," and he knew it. He scowled, the gray, angular lines of his ugly face seeming to grow more angular still, his small eyes narrowing.

"You naturally support Odin's evil deeds," Laufey said, circling around her as he stripped the clothes from her body with his **(icy stare. "So much for the Lady Frigg's much-vaunted compassion."

"You speak of compassion?" she said. "You, who would gladly destroy all the other Realms merely to fulfill your desire for revenge?"

"And why not?" he hissed, veiling her in condensation. "It was not I who all but destroyed _your_ home."

"No. You merely sowed death and suffering wherever you and your people ventured. You nearly destroyed Midgard, when—"

"Midgard. That _is_ amusing, my lady. When you fought us there, when the Midgardians were only a little more savage than they are now, it was not for _their_ sake. It was so that Odin All-father could maintain his control over all of us."

"Regardless of his reasons, the people of earth are safe from you now."

"And Odin cares nothing for them. As long as they remain no threat to him, he will allow them to destroy themselves."

"I am not interested in a discussion of Midgard," Frigga said, suppressing a shiver. "I came to make a bargain."

"Ah. The bargain." Laufey grinned, displaying his pointed teeth. He raised his arm and opened his long gray fingers. The object lay quiescent in the palm of his hand. He cocked his head and examined it as if he had only just discovered the horror of it.

"Your son," he said. "Young Thor. So very promising, the crown prince of Asgard. Bold and fearless even at his tender age. So fearless that his father saw fit to allow him to observe the battle when he arrived to put down our little rebellion."

Laufey's self-mockery seemed to burn its way under Frigga's skin, turning cold to unbearable heat. "Thor did nothing to you," she said. "Nothing."

"But he will grow to be the perfect image of his father, " Laufey said. "He will kill many sons of Jotunheim, as the All-father killed my own. "

"The king did not realize—"

"If he had, it would have made no difference." Laufey squeezed the object in his hand. A thread of green light moved through its crystalline structure like a worm though soft earth. "He would have taken great pleasure in slaughtering my entire line."

"You are wrong," Frigga said, unable to look away from the object that could so easily destroy her son.

"And you still know nothing of your husband," Laufey said. He pressed on the object again, and a flare of red burst around the quivering green thread. "It would be so easy to end _his_ line, here and now. "

"If you mean to kill me instead," Frigga said, lifting her head, "do not waste my time with more empty words."

"_Kill_ you?" Laufey said. "But you must know that is not why I brought you here. Your son was foolish enough to take what he had no business touching. A mere toy to him, a souvenir of his father's victory." He breathed a laugh. "A fragment of the last defense we held against you, saved for the time when it would most be needed. A sliver of what I hold in my hand." He stroked one of the smooth facets with his thumb as if it were the softest flesh. "And now that sliver has become a part of him, though he only believes he has lost it."

"What do you want of me?" Frigga asked, though the question was meaningless. As Laufey had said, she already knew.

"Everything that passes between us now must never be shared with another," Laufey said, all mockery gone. "This you will swear."

Frigga swallowed. "I will so swear, when you—"

"I also give my word. You will see this crystal destroyed … when you have fulfilled your part of the bargain."

"You will destroy it first. I can hardly fail to uphold my oath here in your realm, where I have no power."

"If I wanted unwilling submission," Laufey said, running the forefinger of his free hand across the front of her heavy fur cloak, "I could have taken it the moment you arrived."

"And seen your world stripped barren of life forever."

"Because you would admit your betrayal to your loving husband?"

"I withhold nothing from him."

"Except this. Or Thor dies."

She held his gaze, though it was one of the hardest things she had ever done. "I will never tell him."

"Then I honor your word." He sighed, as if he could feel the same emotions that moved any citizen of Asgard. "It need not be so unpleasant, my lady Frigga, if this form displeases you."

All at once Laufey was no longer there. In his place stood a fine specimen of Asgardian manhood, tall and muscular and open of expression, dressed in the rich raiment of the nobility. His hair was black, a less common color among Asgardians but far from rare. Only a certain angularity of feature and narrowness of face suggested what he had been a moment before.

It was an obscenity.

"I have no need of your tricks," she said. "I have no desire to make this pleasant for myself, as if such a thing were possible. Let us be done with it."

"As you wish." He resumed his true shape, harsh and unrelenting. "But even I have no desire to carry it out on this plain where all can observe. We are not entirely barbarians." He held out his hand. "Come, Queen of Asgard. There are gentler places even here, hidden places where we can be alone and in comfort that may be acceptable even to you."

"I doubt it," she said. She pulled her cloak closer about her body, ignoring Laufey's offered hand. "Let us go."

He moved suddenly to take her by the shoulders, his fingers digging through her layers of clothing and into her flesh. "You _will_ be cooperative, my lady. You will not spit at me. I will see no contempt in your eyes. The son we make will replace the one Odin stole from me. He will be the first of a new line, a line of kings."

"Who shall never leave this realm," she said, holding utterly still.

"Are you so certain?" he said, stroking her cheek. His touch was nearly as gentle as the snowflakes that fell around them. "He will be your son as well. Can you despise your own offspring?"

Frigga had no answer. Her throat was too tight for speech, and she had grown numb not only with the cold but with resignation. Laufey stared at her for a moment longer and then turned away, gesturing for her to follow.

#

Frigga woke from the memory as if from a nightmare, her gown drenched with perspiration, her skin burning and her eyes sore with weeping. She touched her belly gently, as if the life she and Laufey had made still resided within her.

But no. He slept in another womb, hard-edged and merciless. Because he had wanted to rule, following in the footsteps of kings.

Two kings. One who had abandoned him because he was deemed unfit to carry on the line of Laufey, client ruler of Jotunheim; the other who had generously taken a helpless infant into his keeping.

One might have thought it coincidence. But Frigga knew that Odin had sensed something about that infant, though he had never guessed its true parentage. Sensed enough to save it from certain death.

And now condemned it—him—to something worse than mere extinction.

She crawled from the bed, gazing blinding about the chamber. Gerda had left the tray of wine and fruit she had requested, finding her mistress asleep. The thought of eating or drinking made Frigga's stomach heave.

She dragged a robe around her shoulders and drifted to the balcony. The day was warm, and the doors had been left open to let in a pleasant breeze. But she could taste snowflakes, feel the gale turn her moist skin to something hard and brittle.

Feel _him_, still. Loki's father.

"_Then I am not your mother_?" she had asked her son.

"_You are not_." So certain he had been. And so very wrong.

She braced her hand on the railing and leaned over it, closing her eyes. Once again the old memories returned, but now they were of a happier time. A time of blessed reunion, when she had held her living secret in her arms.

#


	3. Chapter 3

Odin cradled the infant in his big hands as if it were his own.

Frigga knew the babe. She didn't even need to see his small, pink, wrinkled face. He was so tiny, so delicate for the child of a frost giant, and she knew he had not been good enough for Laufey. Too much like his mother. Or perhaps it was simply that Jotunheim's king hated his conqueror's people so much that he would not have even a babe _he_ had sired on his ravaged world.

At least not alive.

"This jotun child," Odin said in his gruff, weary voice, "was left alone to die. He seems different from most frost giants—smaller, weaker. Perhaps that is why he was exposed."

"He does seem … helpless," she murmured.

"I thought you might care for him, soft-hearted as you are." He smiled at her, deep lines radiating out from his good eye. A cut on his forehead, just under the rim of his helmet, was just beginning to heal. "I have already assured that no one will recognize him as jotun. "

"He was … he appeared—"

"Like a frost giant, of course. It was a simple matter to alter the color of his skin and eyes and smooth his skin. Remarkably simple, in fact. One might almost think he was not fully jotun."

Unable to move, Frigga stared at the boy. She waited for condemnation, but none came. Odin was oblivious to her feelings.

He didn't know. He hadn't guessed.

And why should he? He could see so much with his one eye, and yet he did not recognize her guilt. Or the pain that seared her heart.

"If you can manage him and he adapts well here," Odin said, "he will be raised alongside our own son. He may prove useful in the future."

Frigga swallowed. His tone was so matter-of-fact, as if he could easily see how such a child could be used to the benefit of Asgard. Raised to be loyal to Asgard alone, and to the All-father.

Raised by his own true mother.

"It would be a good to have a son who might one day rule Jotunheim for us," she said, keeping her tone perfectly level.

"That has been in my mind since I took him. If he is worthy, he shall never know what he is. Not until he is old enough to understand."

"You are merciful, husband."

"I am practical. But I did admire his determination to survive."

As all Asgardians did. Strength, endurance, courage … these things were traits most highly respected by Odin's people.

And already this babe had displayed all three.

"Give him to me," she said, holding out her arms.

Odin passed the infant over willingly enough, as if he was glad to be rid of the tiny burden. Frigga did everything possible not to break down and weep. The babe's skin seemed so cold that the chill seeped through her clothing and into her breast. She could already feel the change in herself, her body reacting to his need.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for trusting me with this responsibility."

"Who else?" he asked. "What you do in the next few months will determine his fate."

"Surely … surely you would not—"

"I would not have saved him had I intended to kill him." He sighed. "I am weary," he said, his deep voice faltering. "I will see the healers, and then return to see how you fare with the boy." He kissed her cheek. "Until tonight."

Frigga bowed her head in respect and watched him leave, his body bent with pain and exhaustion. She didn't move until he had departed her chamber and his escort had fallen in around him. Then she looked down.

The babe gazed into her eyes as if he could see her as well as an older child. His own eyes were blue, like those of any infant, but there was a hint of green in them. He lifted one delicate hand to pat her face.

He knew _her_, too.

She lifted him close to her face so that her cheek touched his. "My son," she whispered. "I thought never to see you again."

Burbling softly, the infant nestled into her as if he had found his true home. A survivor. A fighter who had refused to die when all the odds were against him. Not at all like Thor, and yet she knew in her heart that one day he would be as formidable as Odin's son.

"I will teach you," she said, rocking him gently. "You will be loved, and cherished, and become a brother to Thor, whom I fear is a little too wild." She smiled fondly at the thought of her bold, vigorous son, still a child himself and as willful as any. "But he has a good heart. He will look after you, as I will."

The baby grinned as if he understood every word. Frigga moved to her couch and sat. Already her breasts had begun to ache, though it had been a full year since she had delivered this child, birthed in secret, to Laufey. Like Asgardians, the jotuns aged very slowly.

She was grateful, so very grateful, for that. It was not too late.

Opening her robes, she gathered the boy to her chest. He was hungry, as she had known he would be. She felt him grow warm, his skin flushing, his eyes closing in contentment. The tears ran down her cheeks unheeded.

"My son," she whispered. "My poor, abandoned son. I shall never leave you again."

As he drifted into sleep, she made a little bed for him from among her robes and furs on the couch, preparing to send for all her maids, to have a temporary cradle brought to her rooms, all the things he would need until those furnishings befitting a prince could be obtained.

For he would be a prince. She would see him worthy to be Odin's son, accepted by the All-father as Thor's brother. Whatever her husband's plans for the babe, he would grow to love him as if he were his own.

But he would always be _hers_.

"You must have a name," she said, stroking his velvet cheek, so unlike that of a jotun. "It shall be …."

It came to him as if by magic itself. "Loki," she said. "My son, Loki."

She kissed his forehead, taking care that her tears didn't fall on his face and disturb his rest. She knelt beside the couch for what might have been hours, until Gerda came to look in on her.

"My queen," she said. "Is all well?"

"Very well." Frigga rose, glancing once more at Loki to make certain he was still sleeping peacefully. "But there are many things I shall need. Call the Ladies Runa and Asleif, the royal midwife and the chamberlain, but say nothing of why they have been summoned. I will have many tasks for them."

Loki let out a small cry, and Gerda's gaze snapped to the couch. "Oh, my queen," she whispered.

"His name is Prince Loki," Frigga said, lifting her chin. "I shall exact from you and the others a vow of silence. No one in the court is to know he is here until I am prepared to announce his birth. This is also the king's wish."

Gerda stared at her for a moment and then bowed her head. "It will be as you command, my queen."

Once she was gone, Frigga sat on the couch and sang an ancient nursery tune as Loki fed. Again he looked into her eyes, all trust and love. Never once did he cry.

She brushed the tip of his little nose with the tip of her finger. "Our secret, son of mine," she said. "Ours until I die."

#

As many times as he told himself he felt nothing, Loki knew it was a lie. Even as a part of him laughed at his predicament and convinced himself that he would escape—that he was far too clever for these guards, Thor, even Odin—despair would overtake him, and for a few moment he would actually lose hope of ever leaving this cell. Of never fulfilling his destiny.

Sometimes, he even wondered if it was worth it.

But then, as now, pacing his cell from one end to the other, he overcame the despicable weakness and focused his mind on planning. He was still capable of using illusion. But pretending simply to be ill or dead hadn't been at all effective-not that he'd expected it to be. They were prepared for such obvious tricks.

Thor had not come to see him once since his captivity began, nor had Loki expected it. Sometimes he almost missed the big oaf's bluff, naïve nature. But not often. Generally, he could think of no one whose absence he regretted.

Save Frigga.

He looked down at his hand. He didn't need to concentrate to make the pale flesh turn gray, beginning at his fingertips and creeping up his hand and then to his wrist. Was this not his natural form? Had not Frigga deceived him all his life, prepared to let Odin use him as a tool to secure Jotunheim?

"Your birthright was to die." Odin had meant the vicious words to wound and tear and make Loki bleed. They only confirmed what Loki had known since just before he'd let himself fall from the Bifrost: Odin was no wise father to his people. He was an arrogant, greedy, vengeful ruler whose only interest lay in wielding and holding power by any means necessary, displaying his own utter hypocrisy with his pronouncement of Loki's crimes.

As if he were Loki's father indeed.

Loki closed his fingers into a fist, his skin paling again. Sometimes, in spite of what he was, he imagined his hands were like Frigga's, long-fingered and clever. And though he had no mirror in this prison, he had sometimes he saw his own face bearing Frigga's mark: high cheekbones, chin, nose, a certain fineness of feature lacking in Odin's line … or among the jotuns.

He laughed. Both his adoptive parents had given him a gift. Odin had taught him to expect a throne, and to hate. Frigga had taught him to ….

Making his way back to his chair, he sank into it, resting his chin on his fist. He remembered every moment of his life with perfect clarity, except a few blank spots from his sojourn on Midgard. He remembered recognizing Frigga for the first time, his eyes focusing on her face, seeing only the love he had felt since his ….

Birth. How very well she'd made him believe he'd come from her own body. And still treated him as if he had.

He sensed the guards before they approached the clear window of the cell and got to his feet. Their captain bowed perfunctorily—a lifetime's habit was hard to break, and Loki was still, technically, a prince.

"I have brought a gift from the queen," Fandral said, displaying the box in his hands. It was a very plain box, not like the one Frigga had given Loki on the morning of one birth-day feast five hundred years ago.

That box had contained a fine set of daggers, weapons he had carried with him nearly every day of those five hundred years. Until they had been taken from him, along with his freedom

Loki arched a brow. "I am deeply honored to be favored with your company, Lord Fandral," he said, inclining his head very slightly. "You are the first of my erstwhile companions to visit me in my solitude."

"You were only our companion because of Thor," Fandral said, his ordinarily pleasant face stern and dark with dislike. "Were it not for the queen—"

"I know, I know," Loki said, waving a dismissive hand. "Since I doubt you are here for a chat, leave the gift and return to your womanizing. I'm sure the maidens of Asgard—those that remain maidens—are pining for your company."

With a long, narrow-eyed look at Loki, Fandral produced a key from inside his tunic. It could neutralize only a very small area of the energy barrier, an area just large enough through which to pass objects of limited size into the cell.

As always, Loki weighed his chances, his gaze sweeping over the raised weapons of Fandral's men. He had already tried working at the weak spot in the barrier, to not avail. He would not make a fool of himself by trying now. Not in front of this whoring fool.

Never quite taking his eyes from Loki, Fandral deactivated the small section of the barrier and pushed the box through. He locked the "door" quickly and backed away as if he expected Loki to turn to smoke and flow through the opening like a serpent out of its hole.

"Is bold Fandral afraid of a helpless prisoner?" Loki asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

Fandral straightened, his eyes spitting hatred. "Of you? Asgard has nothing to fear from you. And when you finally die, there will be a celebration such as this realm has never known."

Loki cocked his head. "Are you so certain of that? I am not so isolated here that I have not heard of the fighting. What will become of Asgard if both its king and his heir die defending the realm?"

"You may sit and chew on that hope until your hair is white and your body too feeble to stand. Think on eternity, Loki."

He spun on his heel, signaled to the guards, and tramped away.

Loki looked after him until his eyes unfocused and he had to shake himself back to consciousness. He looked down at the box, bit his lip, and bent to pick it up. He laid it on the small table and slowly lifted the lid.

Pears. The sweet, perfect pairs from Frigga's private garden. The pears they had shared every morning of every birth-day feast since Loki had been no more than a hundred years old, just reaching the cusp of manhood, and Thor had already been blooded in his first battle.

"Mother," Loki said softly. "Why didn't you send daggers?"

Smiling at his own absurdity, Loki lifted one of the six pears from its silken cradle and held it to his nose. It was ripened to perfection, bespelled to maintain its freshness for weeks should Loki choose to savor the gifts slowly.

He closed his eyes and bit into it, feeling the juice run down his chin exactly as if he were still that blind, ignorant child once more. He took his time about it, sitting back in the chair and lost, for a few moments, to the rarity of pure satisfaction.

Frigga would not forget him. When he escaped—and he would escape—he would find a way to thank her. She would be the only one owed his consideration. Escape first, and then vengeance.

But never on her. Never on the one woman who had made him understand that there was such a thing as "good." Which he could never be.

#

Look for Chapter Four, coming soon …


	4. Chapter 4

_**Frigga looked at the timepiece**_ on her small, hand-carved bedside table. She had slept for a time, though she knew she had duties to attend to, audiences to grant, preparations to make for the return of her son from his latest victorious battle against the Marauders.

But her visits with Loki had awakened so many memories, and they had stolen into her dreams. Even in sleep, her mind attempted to make sense of what had happened to him, why he had changed so much, why she hadn't seen those changes coming. How she had failed him.

Where had it all begun?

#

"Why am I so different, Mother?"

Frigga gazed at the slender, dark-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the floor, one of Frigga's books of magic resting across his knees. He had been reading the way he usually did, with fixed concentration, though she knew his senses were finely attuned to everything that went around him … sounds as faint as the distant buzzing of a fly, movement as slight as the silent shifting of draperies caught by the breeze, the subtle scent of roses blooming in one of the palace gardens several courtyards away.

Ever-alert, her Loki. Like a creature caught out of its own habitat, struggling to stay alive.

As he had struggled on Jotunheim, a babe left to die.

She sat on the floor beside him, and his eyes—as complex as the rest of him, blue with a flash of green that revealed itself most in times of high emotion—rested on hers with probing intensity. Few others saw him this way: so solemn, so still. Outside of this chamber or his own, he was always the chameleon—smiling, easily shedding surreptitious glances of suspicion and even contempt, willing to attempt anything demanded of him by those who, finding him different, tested him-altering himself to the preferences of his company, especially Thor's.

Or so it seemed. Because _she_ knew he was constantly weighing the odds, considering how far to push the magic he was learning so rapidly, how much he dared reveal of the anger and discontent that drove him to excel in the skills his mother taught him. He played tricks and made clever jests like a boy twice his age, and sometimes they held the sting of malice.

But that, fortunately, was seldom. She had worked hard to help him control his less acceptable impulses, as she had comforted him when he had failed to live up to the standards by which all Asgardian males were judged. And by which, all too often, he judged himself.

"We have often spoken of this, Loki," she said, brushing an errant strand of black hair away from his forehead. That hair never stayed in place-even though he wore it short like most boys-and tended to flop over his eyes, giving him an even more secretive appearance.

"I know," Loki said. He set the book aside carefully, for it was ancient, and he respected what it contained. "You always say everyone is different in some way. My brother is one of the strongest boys in Asgard, and he's very good with most weapons. Fandral is fast and never seems to get angry. Sif only wants to fight instead of doing girl things, and she can't stop looking at Thor."

Frigga hid a smile. Few boys Loki's age would have noticed, but Sif's infatuation with Frigga's eldest son was evident to everyone who had lived beyond two centuries. She knew it was Odin's wish that one day Thor and Sif would marry … that Sif would settle into a woman's proper place and make an acceptable queen for him when at last he took the throne.

An acceptable queen Sif might become, but Frigga strongly doubted that she would ever settle into the life of a woman content to hold court at home while her husband was away fighting battles to protect the Realm.

Even Frigga had learned to fight as a girl, and had kept her skills sharp. But she had been prepared to take on a more domestic role. And now she was grateful she had.

"What makes you smile, Mother?" Loki asked, his forehead creased in a frown.

"I think only of the very differences we were discussing," she said, "and how some boys and girls never fall easily into the roles for which they were intended. There is no shame in that, Loki, no matter what some may imply."

"And what is intended for me?" he asked, scooting around to face her.

They had discussed this before, too, but Frigga had never found a truly satisfactory answer. Odin had often told the boys they were both born to be kings, but had never seen fit to explain himself. Thor and Loki had simply accepted, for surely their royal father would never lie to them.

Did Loki believe, deep in his heart, that one day _he_ would be chosen to rule Asgard, younger son though he was? _Different_ though he was?

Frigga knew herself to be a coward, for she had never dared ask him. To let him down now, to make him feel he was less than worthy, was something she couldn't bear.

So, as always, she circled carefully around the question.

"One day," she said, "you will be a great man in Asgard, a protector of the Realm, and all the skills you learn now will serve you in this work. You are observant, and clever, and wise when you wish to be. It is this wisdom I would see you develop in anticipation of the day you reach full manhood, for it will steady you and enhance your cleverness."

"Thor isn't very clever," Loki said in a scornful voice that Frigga knew came more from jealousy than conviction.

"He is intelligent, but not as you are," she said.

"He laughs at things that aren't funny."

"Yes, Thor enjoys laughter." She smiled at Loki reprovingly. "But there are many kinds of humor. You have always been more discerning in your appreciation of clever turns of phrase, irony and satire, which few of your peers comprehend."

Loki pulled a face. "It's easy to trick Thor. He doesn't understand half of what I say."

"But one day he will, and then … beware." She bared her teeth like a bilgesnipe, and Loki laughed at the absurdity of it.

"Will he fight me when he realizes how I mock him and his friends?" Loki asked, sober again in one of his lightning-quick changes of mood. "If he tries—"

"No," she said, "He may be the stronger, but he would never harm you, not for anything in the world. You two may be very different, but you are brothers, and you love each other."

With a snort he intended to be derisive but which was merely another form of concealing his true emotions, Loki snapped his fingers. A globe of light hovered above his curved palm, Thor's face ridiculously distorted within it. Frigga covered his hand and doused the light.

"Do not deny these good things you feel," Frigga said gently.

"Thor would rather brawl with his friends than spend time with me now," Loki said, his face expressionless. "He thinks he's a man and I'm still a child, though there are only a hundred years between us."

"He doesn't underestimate you nearly as much as you think he does," Frigga said. "And you should never underestimate _him_."

"I don't," Loki muttered, tracing one long finger over the intricate pattern woven into the carpet. "I just miss him sometimes."

His sudden admission of vulnerability brought tears to Frigga's eyes. "I know," she said. "But soon you'll catch up to him, and you'll have so much more in common."

She spoke the lie easily because she had much practice. Loki and Thor would never be even remotely alike, for all they shared the same mother. But that was something to be celebrated, not mourned. A deep love did bind her sons, born of Thor's surprisingly gentle handling of the boy, physically and emotionally, since Frigga had first announced the unexpected birth of a second son. He had taken great pleasure in looking after Loki, playing games he was too old to find entertaining, leading his younger brother on wild adventures, teaching him to ride his first pony. And Loki returned that absolute loyalty, though he never put it into words.

"I don't think so, Mother," he said, his gaze clear and certain. "But maybe that won't matter, when we're older."

"I know it won't." She leaned over to hug him. He stiffened a little, on his boyish dignity, but he accepted it with stoicism because he was not ashamed to be loved by his mother.

And she loved him so dearly, more than Thor, more than even Odin himself. She had spent many long nights in torment, hiding her feelings from her husband, wondering if her devotion was due to guilt. But if it had begun that way, it had long since ceased being so.

"Shall we work on spells," she asked brightly, hoping to turn him away from more dangerous questions, "or practice with the daggers?"

Loki grinned, the light of mischief—and something darker—in his eyes. "Daggers," he said. "I want to surprise Thor next time he shows off to his friends."

It was not the best of motives, but Frigga was content to go along. Dagger-work required not only superb timing, grace and precision, but also discipline. The first three Loki already possessed in abundance, but the last he was only beginning to master.

Her only fear was that he would turn that discipline in directions that could make it a tool of his darker moods, not toward the duties of a son of Odin. She could never forget he was half jotun, Laufey's son as well as her own. And that tainted blood would never be accepted by the people of Asgard, or its king.

Who would never, ever know.

She drew her daggers from within her robes. Loki produced his smaller weapons as if out of empty air.

Someone burst into the chamber like a winter storm. Thor was grinning, bluff and guileless as ever, and stood just inside the doorway with his hands on his hips. He was, indeed, only a hundred years older than Loki—coming into his adult height and strength, but still with the manners of a wolf pup old enough to understand the rules of the pack but not yet ready to accept that he still had much to learn.

"Good afternoon, Mother," he said with a slight bow. "Hello, brother. Am I intruding?"

Loki let his arms fall, and his daggers disappeared. Frigga straightened, hiding her disappointment, and smiled.

"We were about to practice, Thor," she said. "Is there something you require?"

"Daggers again?" Thor winked at Loki. "Mother, you don't mind if I borrow my little brother for a while? I've had a new sword made just for his weight and size. Perhaps he'll find it easier to wield. And he's far too pale." He beckoned Loki with a grandly welcoming gesture. "You need fresh air and sunshine, little brother. And we're in need of your jests."

Frigga glanced at Loki. He was smiling, as if he welcomed the interruption.

"If our mother has no objection," Loki said, glancing at her as any young man might a woman whose company was no longer desirable.

But she saw what was in his eyes, the way a muscle jumped in his jaw. He loathed what Thor, in his blindness, was about to put him through. He would play along, play the clown if necessary, mock himself to fend off the constant sense that he didn't belong. Frigga wondered when he would become so adept at fooling everyone that he would begin to fool himself, and forget this vulnerability, this fear, this deep pain even she could not ease.

Perhaps it would be better for him. But would it be better for everyone else? Would the great potential she saw him be guided by love—for her, for his brother, for Odin—or by the bitter darkness of his father's heritage and his own sometimes crippling self-doubt?

"Go," she said, pushing aside the painful thoughts. "It can wait."

With a quick, almost perfunctory bow, Loki joined Thor in the doorway. He cast one last look over his shoulder as Thor preceded him into the hall.

"We'll talk again soon, Mother," he said, and disappeared.

Frigga wondered what she would say next time, and the next, and the next. Until he grew too busy and too old and too burdened with his own share of royal duties to ask again.

But he would never forget the question.


End file.
